You Like Your Girls Insane
by CoutureWriting
Summary: Tess turns up at 221B Baker St needing Sherlock and Watson help investigate the supposed 'suicide' of her mother. As Sherlock takes the case, she is finding it difficult to deny the attraction to him she harbours. But love is dangerous, isn't it?
1. An Unexpected Arrival

**Okay, this is my first _Sherlock_ fan fiction. I've chosen to create my own character instead of using Irene Adler or Watson, partly because I like creating characters but mostly because I want to hand pick my ideal match for Sherlock. So, let me know if you like her, or if she's too so-so. I want to inject as much personality into her as I can, so feel free to review with suggestions or criticisms as well as praise. Hopefully I do Sherlock justice, it's a bit daunting undertaking a fan fiction partly from his perspective because, well, he's a genius, so I hope it sounds okay. Please tell me if not. **

**All credit where it is due. Conan Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss...**

* * *

><p>The hum of the violin strings beneath his fingers, the heavy rain pouring onto the roof, the inconsistent downpipe overflowing … but something else.<p>

Sherlock's eyes opened slowly, bright blue even in the dull light. He peered out of the window to the street below. A cab had pulled up, lights bright in the deserted street. A figure emerged from within, peacoat braced against the rain.

She was lightly built, so female. Slim. Dark-haired… Wearing an expensive coat … so she was wealthy … but not a woman's coat so she was … involved … with someone wealthy.

He placed the violin on the table and turned.

"We have a visitor," he announced, leaning over Watson's shoulder, slapping the screen of his laptop shut.

"It's a quarter past one in the morning," said Watson.

"So it is," hummed Sherlock.

He heard Mrs. Hudson bustling downstairs to answer the door. Slowly … she'd just got out of bed. He clapped his hands together and fell back into the nearest armchair.

Mrs. Hudson on the stairs. Mrs. Hudson at the door. She was wrapped up tightly in her dressing gown. The girl behind her was at least two heads taller … and young.

"A Miss Lola Flowers to see you, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson. "Now, mind, I'll be going back to bed. You can show your friend out yourself."

She left, and the girl in the doorway didn't hesitate. She stepped inside, glancing around the apartment before meeting his own eyes.

Her hair—very dark—was pulled away from her face. He had been right about the peacoat, clearly expensive, and clearly masculine. She was shrouded by it, but he caught sight of sunkissed skin … she'd been abroad very recently. Dark jeans … men's boots? She had heavy, dark eyebrows but her eyes were bright with intellect and curiosity.

"I know what you're doing," she said slowly.

American. New York.

"And what is it I'm doing?" he asked, glancing back at her face.

"Working me out," she said with a grin. "I know you'll have it all wrong."

He narrowed his eyes involuntarily.

"How can you be so sure?" he asked.

She smiled. "Try me, Mr. Holmes."

He stood and approached her carefully.

"You're in a relationship … maybe one or two years," said Sherlock, slowly, he leant a hand down the coat and pulled from it a locket. "He gave you that necklace, looks new … hardly a present from a parent, is it? And that's his coat. A few years old … needs a dry-clean."

"Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong," she said, her smile growing. "I was in my last relationship when I was nineteen, I'm twenty-one. I bought myself the necklace. This coat is from a thrift store earlier today. As for needing to be dry-cleaned, I can't contest that. Would you like to try again?" she offered.

He hesitated. "You've been travelling … somewhere sunny," he said.

"Wrong," she smiled. "Natural colour from my questionable ethnic family tree."

"You're American, from New York … born and bred."

She grinned. "I grew up in Bloomsbury, actually."

"The accent…"

"False, learnt from observation and practice," she laughed, the British creeping back into her accent. Very good.

"Your name isn't Lola Flowers," he said, crossing the room.

"Oh, very good," she cried. "What could it possibly be?"

He flashed her set of keys at her.

"Pickpocketing, Mr. Holmes?"

"This one here," he thrust a 'T' keychain at her. "Nice touch. Obviously not for Lola, though." Then he flashed her phone at her. "Your mother calls you Tess in her texts. So it's Teresa, I'm assuming."

Her smile widened. "You're improving."

"Your face is very familiar though," he continued.

"Think very hard, Sherlock," she whispered, inching past him to offer her hand to Watson.

"Hello, Dr. Watson, I'm Tess F—"

"FARLINGTON!" cried Sherlock. Her face resembled strongly a woman who had been reported dead on the news the night before. The same cheekbones, the same arched brows, full lips, dark eyes and full forehead.

She smiled slowly. "Precisely. Am I to assume you understand my reason for coming, then?"

"Anita Farlington, founder of the cosmetic empire, was your mother?" asked Watson.

"The very same," Tess agreed. "She was shot dead yesterday in a room locked from the inside."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Hardly a new concept."

"Oh, well, if you're not interested," she said quietly. "I suppose I'll be off. It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Watson. I'd love to say the same for you, Holmes."

Sherlock watched as she turned on her heel and flounced out of the room. She wanted him to go after her, that much he had deduced. But also that she was attracted to him. Her lack of grief had confused him at first, but she was cold and factual about her mother's death, which suggested a distant relationship … a lack of communication … a betrayal perhaps?

"Will you go and bring her back?" he gestured for Watson.

"I thought you dismissed her," said Watson.

"I thought I did too. Now I want her back in the room. We'll entertain her investigation."

"I hardly think 'entertain' is the word," Watson protested. "Her mother's just died."

"Did you notice that she didn't appear particularly bothered, or did that escape your attention?" asked Sherlock, bored. "Just bring her back, or tell her I'll look into it … or whatever."

Rolling his eyes, Watson got to his feet and hurried after Tess.

Sherlock slumped back into the chair. He was intrigued. This girl had obviously done her research on the pair of them, but why? She'd delighted in misleading him on almost everything about her, but she had willingly divulged the information upon his mistakes, so he could assume it was a game for her… She was intelligent, very much so, but conceited about it too.

"Caught her at the door," Watson explained upon re-entering the room. Tess trailed behind him, looking self-satisfied.

"You'll look into it then, Mr. Holmes?" she demanded.

"Sherlock, please," he insisted. He got to his feet and paced beside the window. "Who is in charge of the investigation?"

"DI Lestrade. He thinks it's an open and shut case of suicide," Tess said quietly. "But he didn't know my mother. She loved herself too much to kill herself."

"You inherit everything?"

She closed her eyes. "You think I did it?"

"Hardly," he scoffed. "It would take smarts to do this."

"Excuse me?" she demanded coldly. "How dare you insinuate about that."

He smiled. He was right about her complacency in regards to her intelligence. He doubted he could have elicited the same reaction from a comment about her appearance or demeanor.

He bowed. "My apologies."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Well, unfortunately, I'd love to stay and chat, but I do, in fact, have to find a place to stay tonight."

"What's wrong with your mother's house?" asked Watson

She made a face. "You think I'd want to go back to that place? I skipped out as soon as I turned eighteen, there's no chance I'll go back."

"Couch," announced Sherlock.

She stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"

He gestured to the lounge.

"You think I'm going to camp on the couch in the apartment of two men I just met?" she asked.

His eyes locked on hers. "You don't have any money for a hotel," said Sherlock quietly. He raised his hand to dismiss her protests. "You don't have any money, full stop, until the will is executed. The way you hold yourself and the food stains under your right ear suggest you've been waitressing, maybe since you left home, not at a nice place either judging by the bruises on your wrist. Unpleasant boss? You shop at thrift stores, which suggest you're not very wealthy, I'll bet that coat was a lucky find; did you notice it was valuable? You've been waiting for an invitation to stay since you got here. I'll guess you spent the last of your cash on that cab and that your exit was a bluff … one that I have called. So unless you want to walk the streets, you'll sleep on the couch."

Her eyes were fixed on him. "Thank you," she said finally.

"Watson, see if you can find some bedding for our friend," said Sherlock, raising his eyebrows.

Huffing, Watson got to his feet and disappeared upstairs.

"Did you bring anything with you?" asked Sherlock. "A bag? A suitcase?"

"Just my wonderful self," said Tess, sitting down at the table, she smiled humorlessly. "I was mugged the day before last. My boss refused to pay me, so I took the money for the cab from the till. He'll go crazy when he finds out."

"Sounds like a lovely man," said Sherlock.

"The nicest," she agreed sarcastically.

"So why does the blossoming daughter of one of the wealthiest women in Britain skip out of home as soon as she can?" asked Sherlock.

She glanced at him. "I thought you might have been able to answer that. Don't you know me well enough by now?"

He scrutinized her. "Your mother was a businesswoman, yes? Cold, calculating and unaffectionate, I _imagine_. Perhaps she attempted to mold you into something that you're not. Perhaps not. You seem intelligent, I would say university educated, but you didn't stay at university, did you? Oxford, yes? You were there less than a year."

She shrugged. "How could you know?"

"Unimpressive," he dismissed it. "I occasionally read the paper—the media were very unforgiving towards your mother. And you have an Oxford keychain on your keys."

She smiled wanly. "Right on all counts. My mother was demanding and merciless. Wanted to ensure I made my own way. Chose just about everything before me—work, lovers, money … And you're right, I studied psychology for six months at Oxford."

He nodded.

"You're very good, Mr. Holmes, very good," she said. "I'm afraid I don't have any more misleading clues on me. I wanted to see how your brain worked. Just as I imagined, you made your assumptions on how I looked. I like it. I take everything at face value, too."

"Sheets and a pillow," announced Watson, returning with an armful of bedding.

She got to her feet and took them from him. "I'll manage," she said. "Thank you so much."

She placed the bedding on the couch and turned back to Sherlock.

"I don't suppose you have any ideas about my mother then?" she asked.

"Several," he said carelessly. "All unperfected. I'll let you know when something strikes me. I'll call Lestrade in the morning."

She smiled. "It is the morning."

"Ah, for we night owls, it is," said Sherlock with a smile. "I'm afraid _normal_ people like Lestrade do like to sleep occasionally."

"Occasionally?"

"Occasionally."

* * *

><p><strong>So that's it for now...<strong>

**I'm not exactly sure if I'll continue with this... I want to, but I don't know if I can do Holmes justice. Argh. There's just something that doesn't seem right, but who knows! If you enjoyed, please review! **

**All my love.**


	2. Tess Shows Her Hand

**Apologies for the shortness of this chapter. Still not sure if I'm liking this... So um, this might be it for a while. Umm yes. Anyway. Read please. And review. I got no reviews on the first chapter. :( I'll be forever indebted to you if you do review. Thank you my lovelies.**

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke early, as usual, when the rest of the house was still and silent, except for Mrs. Hudson bustling downstairs. He walked into the living room, expecting to see Tess asleep on the couch where they'd left her yesterday, but she'd stripped it and folded the bedding. He glanced at the table. A steaming hot cup of coffee and a bacon and egg roll sat on the coffee table, probably bought with his money, securing a note underneath. He grabbed it.<p>

_Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,_

_Excuse my disappearance. I had a discussion with Mrs. Hudson today, and I am currently attempting to secure some finances to rent 221C. She was willing to give me a good price, something about the mould. _

_See you soon, probably. _

_Tess_

Sherlock laughed and took a sip of the coffee. Long black, one sugar. How could she possibly know that?

* * *

><p>"And what kind of proposition is that?"<p>

Tess smiled carefully. "I think you know, Mr. Dufort."

"I have a wife."

"I am aware," she said quietly. "I'm also aware that your current girlfriend is planning on selling her story to the press. If you want to keep your place in parliament and your extra-marital affairs, I suggest you humour me."

"You want to be my mistress?" he asked again.

She smiled. "Precisely. I imagine you'll provide for me very well. How big is that pay packet?"

"I haven't said yes yet," he protested.

With a sigh she got to her feet and maneuvered around the desk. "Mr. Dufort, I can be _very_ persuasive." She pushed her leg between his thighs and lowered her mouth to his ear, so her breath tickled his skin. "Am I not pretty enough to tempt you?"

"You're very beautiful … Miss Farlington … but the door, it's not locked," he managed in a choked voice.

She straightened up. "Unfortunate. We shall have to wait, then. Have we have come to an agreement?" she asked him.

"Can I see you tonight?" he asked hopefully.

"But of course," she smiled. "I'll be at your house at ten o'clock sharp. But the thing is, Mr. Dufort, I was rather hoping to go shopping to decorate my new apartment, which you will so graciously provide for me. 221C Baker Street, Westminster."

He nodded slowly.

"I suggest you tell your mistress that you've … ah … replaced her. And you should find an alibi to contest her claims that you've been seeing each other for when she goes to the press."

He continued to nod.

"As for me, I should be off," she said, leaning down to catch his lips in a deep kiss. She stroked his cheek and sashayed out of his office with a little wave.

Leonard Dufort stared after her.

* * *

><p>A crash downstairs pulled Sherlock from his daydream.<p>

"I have no idea what she's doing down there," said Watson, walking into the living room with a cup of tea.

"How long has she been back?" asked Sherlock.

"A few hours," said Watson. "There's been about ten deliveries since she got back. Furniture, I'm assuming. No idea where she got the money. And she's given Mrs. Hudson eight weeks rent in advance."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in thought. How exactly had she 'secured the finances' for the apartment?

"Come on," he said to Watson, leaping to his feet and crashing down the stairs.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Visiting our new neighbor," said Sherlock innocently, banging on Tess's door.

She opened it, covered in sweat, but looking bright. She was dressed in a pair of shorts and a men's shirt that she'd tied around her navel.

"What is your fascination with wearing men's clothes?" he wondered aloud.

"I haven't had time to unpack the clothes I bought. Besides, I'm cleaning. And arranging."

Sherlock glanced past her at the now-spotless apartment, which was filled with all manner of boxes, some half-unpacked with expensive furniture.

"I thought you were penniless," said Watson.

"I thought I was, too," grinned Tess. She danced into the next room as Sherlock and Watson stepped into the apartment. She reappeared flashing a black American Express card at them.

"How did you get that?" asked Sherlock.

She smiled widely. "Gentlemen, meet Mr. Dufort's new mistress."

Silence.

"Mr. Dufort, the politician? But that's … that's prostitution," said Watson slowly, looking thoroughly putout.

Sherlock clapped his hands together and laughed. "But brilliant!"

"Oh, please," said Tess dismissively. "I'm not going to _sleep_ with him." She then flashed a bottle of prescription medication at them. "After his first glass of wine tonight he'll be out cold. Meanwhile, I'll manage some very compromising photographs, and voila! Finances with no obligation."

"But that's blackmail!" cried Watson.

"Would you rather I actually prostitute myself? Make up your mind, my dear," she laughed.

"Well, of course not…"

She grinned.

"Is something burning?" asked Sherlock.

Her eyes widened. "_Shit_."

She disappeared into the kitchen and he followed to see her fanning smoke away from the oven with a tea towel.

He frowned. "Baking?"

She rolled her eyes. "All right, so domesticity isn't my strong point," she moaned.

"We could go out for dinner," he suggested.

She waved him away. "Not hungry. I have to get ready for Leonard, anyway. What to wear?"

John coughed pointedly in disapproval.

Tess rolled her eyes. "Make yourselves at home, boys," she said, gesturing to the new leather couch. She tossed the remote for the new television to Sherlock.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I have to get ready," she explained, slipping into the bedroom. She grinned before closing the door.

Sherlock sat down and turned the TV on. John sat beside him as the news came on.

"You definitely have a type, don't you?" he asked.

Sherlock glanced at him sharply.

"Dark, smart and criminal," he elaborated.

Sherlock scoffed.

* * *

><p><strong>Well that's it for now. PLEASE REVIEW IF YOU WANT ANOTHER LONGER CHAPTER! I hope you like where this is going. I thought about having Tess as Mr. Dufort's actual mistress, but then decided that it might be a bit whorish... so she's going to drug him instead and blackmail - the old-fashioned way of getting what you want! Thanks for reading. :)<strong>


End file.
